“Halt, you infernal Yankees!”
The order was backed up by a volley from the rebel advance guard. The bullets whistled about our ears, but we bent low in our saddles and never looked behind us until we had placed the Sixth corps between us and the Confederates. Then we drew rein and took an inventory. Several canteens were missing, but otherwise we were “all present or accounted for,” and we rode out to the left and rejoined our company.
CHAPTER XI.
Sent to the Hospital—The Convalescent's Vision—The Name on the Head-board—Killed July 28, 1864—Hom Taylor Died—Shot with his Harness On.
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HAD stood the fatigues of the campaign thus far without once answering sick call, but in the latter part of July I began to feel “de misery in de bowels,” as the contrabands described the disease that attacked the soldiers when in camp, and sent so many of them to the cemeteries. I fought against it as long as I could, but I was finally compelled to give in, and allow the first sergeant to put my name on the sick book. I was very weak, and Taylor assisted me over to the surgeon's tent. The doctor marked me “sick in quarters” the first day, and I swallowed medicine every two hours all night. The next morning I was unable to get out of the dog tent Taylor had arranged for me.
Along in the middle of the day I fell asleep. Taylor had insisted that I should “take a nap between drinks,” as he called it.